


when half spent was the night

by juliusschmidt



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Birth, Christmas, F/F, Girl Direction, Pregnancy, labor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 14,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21635275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliusschmidt/pseuds/juliusschmidt
Summary: Hi Harry,I’ve skimmed your website and am interested in hiring you to be my doula. I’m 7 ½ months pregnant and not keen to do this whole labor and birth thing alone.  After looking around, I thought you might be a good fit because you mention enjoying unusual people with unusual birth requests. I can meet up any day this week.Lou
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 398
Kudos: 276





	1. Harry

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes before we begin. 
> 
> 1\. This is an Advent fic, and I plan to post a short (<750 words) chapter every day through till Christmas. However, it is not a feel-good, Christmas-y (or Advent-y), romantic comedy. It's heavy on the angst and light on the holiday decorations. I decided to share it this way when, halfway through writing it, I realized that it took place mostly over the month of the December and that it dealt with a question that haunts the shadow side of Advent: how do we prepare our hearts for hope and new life, for real _love_ , in the midst of brokenness, our own and that of the world? 
> 
> 2\. **Warnings:** infertility, fertility treatments, pregnancy, body image during pregnancy, pre-labor scares, labor, vaginal birth 
> 
> 3\. This is set in the United States. Harry and Louis have families that somewhat resemble their IRL families, but with some key differences. 
> 
> 4\. Thanks and love to my betas, E and Salome. All remaining mistakes are very much my own. <3 <3 <3  
>    
> 5\. [Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1VlwAFuUnYNsPlLucLNXME?si=4vafjRiITju_2J4y-Ku34w) updated daily.

_Late March_

“I realized lately that I don’t have any friends. And I get it, I do. I’m a really bad friend. You know the friend who always ‘generously accepts’ your offer to pick up the tab? The friend who doesn’t call you back… for years? 

“I’m worse than either of those friends. No, really, I am. I’m always stealing shit from my friends. Their jokes. Their girlfriends… Their cars…”

A new, deeper wave of laughter catches Harry mid-giggle. Her sides hurt, her stomach hurts, her cheeks hurt from laughing. 

It might be the margarita, but it also might be that the woman on stage is the funniest comedian in the history of stand-up. 

Harry’s friends left to catch the last train after the previous act and Harry meant to go with them. But then she’d seen the hottie teasing peals of laughter out of the bartender, and she’d told them to go ahead, she’d get an Uber. What she needed after the last twenty-four hours of hell was a light-hearted hour or two of flirting (and whatever else might follow) and the small woman with the soda water and pixie cut seemed exactly her speed. 

Except that when she’d turned away from her departing friends and back to the bar the woman was making her way to the stage where she was introduced as “Louis Tomlinson,” the final act of the night. 

Still, she did not disappoint. Harry hadn’t yet been able to catch her breath between jokes. 

Now, Louis, voice casual, says, “Been trying to get pregnant.” 

The words are a vacuum, sucking all the humor out of Harry’s body. She eyes the door. 

“Mentioned it to my manager,” Louis continues. “And you know what he says? He says, ‘Oo! Have fun!’” 

Harry’s throat is tight and she takes a long pull of her drink. She wants to finish it before she leaves. The alcoholic haze should numb everything just enough until she falls into bed. 

“Have fun?!” Louis practically shouts, eyes gone wide. “Fun?! I said to him, ‘Fun? I’m a _lesbian_.’ 

“And you know what he says to that? He says, ‘Louis, I don’t buy into those stereotypes. I’m sure you and your girlfriend are very fun.’ 

“Okay. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s probably not talking about shelling out thousands of dollars for tests and procedures and frozen sperm and judgy looks by doctors who keep referring to me and my partner as ‘friends.’ And I know he can’t possibly be referring to the hormone-rollercoaster pills or the self-administered injections to the stomach or the catheter up your hoo-ha. 

“So, he’s probably thinking about the monitoring they do. Any of y’all ever had this? They warm up goo. And then rub it all over a very special wand,” she makes a jerking off gesture, “and then they slide it up inside you.” 

Louis wiggles her eyebrows and Harry finishes her drink. 

“They twist it one way. Take a picture.” Louis moans. “And then twist it the other way. Take a picture.” Louis moans again, louder and higher. Despite her earlier interest, Harry can’t even muster up the energy to find it hot. 

“Pretty much the same thing as what I do with my dildo. Expect this dildo has a secret camera. Who knew I was such a voyeur?” Louis asks. 

After a moment, Louis bites her lip. “It’s all worth it, right? Those of you with children- I’m begging you— _it’s all worth it, right?!_ ” 

Harry sets down her glass and pushes her way to the door, humming to herself to block out whatever comes next. 

It’s just too much. She can still see her last client running a bloodstained finger over the fine hairs on her new baby’s arm. And her heart swells up in her chest at the memory of that tiny, flat nose, the twitching, open-mouthed nuzzle as the baby searched for its mother’s breast, the mother, leaning down to press a soft kiss to a still womb-slick head. 

As she leans up against the side of the club waiting for her ride, tears stream down her cheeks. Again... though this time they’re not accompanied by the sniffles that had plagued her in the delivery room a few hours back. 

It isn’t going to pan out for her in the long-term. Word will get around. She can see the reviews already, “Crazy doula weeps uncontrollably after birth. Very distracting from family bonding.” 

She’s got to get herself under control. 


	2. Louis

_Late March_

Louis shakes her head and water spatters the walls of the tiny front hall. Her back hurts and her butt hurts— she’s getting way too old for shitty pop-up bleachers-- and she’s ravenous. 

Blessedly, the house smells of garlic and onion. She breathes it in. Tacos? Or maybe chili? 

She sniffs again, deeper, and it’s almost too strong. Her stomach turns over unhappily— fuck that HCG trigger shot.

“Darling?” 

Annie doesn’t answer. 

“Darling?” 

Louis wanders through the living area and into the kitchen. She spots a note taped to the lid of the crockpot. She opens it. 

_Louis, if you can’t manage to remember our anniversary dinner, how could you possibly manage to take care of a child? This isn’t working and having a baby isn’t going to help. You need to get yourself together— learn how to do laundry, keep a calendar, clean a toilet— before you settle down with me (or anyone else) and start a family. I’m done. Don’t call. -Annie._

Louis does call. 

Annie doesn’t answer. Not the first time. Nor the fifteenth. 

“This is stupid,” Louis tells Annie’s voicemail. “My sister Sam had a soccer game. She’s in the finals— right here in the city. Never thought her team would make it this far. I didn’t have a show tonight, so of course I had to go. I thought you must’ve seen the text chain about it. If you’d have called, I would have told you...

“And I switched the laundry over last night. _Just last night_ , I did laundry, you dick.” 

Louis still goes in for her appointment in the morning. They’ve already paid for the tests, the sperm, the fucking hormones pills that Louis swears are at least half responsible for Annie’s frustration with her, the hella expensive shot, and half of the procedure. She’s not backing out now. 

Annie will change her mind when Louis’ hormones even out. 

~ 

Except, after the procedure-- 

Louis’ hormones don’t even out.

And Annie doesn’t change her mind. 


	3. Harry

_Early November_

Harry changes the background on her email from a red-gold pile of leaves to that of a forest covered in freshly fallen snow. 

Outside, the city is grey and brown— no snow anywhere in the forecast— but Harry’s ready for it. An early winter storm slows everything down and hushes everyone up. 

On the refresh, a new message appears. 

_**Louis Tomlinson** _ **. Re: Doula Services.**

Harry opens it. 

_Hi Harry,_

_I’ve skimmed your website and am interested in hiring you to be my doula. I’m 7 1/2 months pregnant and not keen to do this whole labor and birth thing alone. After looking around, I thought you might be a good fit because you mention enjoying unusual people with unusual birth requests. I can meet up any day this week._

_Lou_

Harry remembers the name. In fact, she can picture the sharp cheekbones and blue eyes with which it belongs. Her thumb hovers over the little trash bin. 

She doesn’t do celebrities, not even local celebrities. Especially not lesbian ones. Especially not lesbian ones who make her laugh so hard she pees a little. Especially not lesbian ones she’d considered chasing across a bar for a hook-up. 

In fact, she nods, resolve firming up, she has been meaning to close up shop altogether. Ten births in and the weeping hasn’t gotten any better. The ache in her chest lasts for days after she’s said goodbye. 

She loves babies, yes, and pregnancy, and labor and birth, with all the blood and all the shouting, loves the hairy, wet bodies of the tiny new people, blinking up into their mothers’ eyes for the very first time. 

Harry loves it so much. So, so much. Too much to bear, probably. Better to turn down Louis’ request and all the rest. Better to pick up more hours at the clinic, update her resume, finally apply to nursing school. 

She types her response. 

_Dear Lou,_

_Thank you for your inquiry. I’d be happy to meet with you Tuesday 5:30pm at Joe’s Cafe. Bring your birth plan and, ideally, your birth partner, if you have one._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry_


	4. Louis

Louis reads the email three times. Harry’s Google icon smiles back at her, dark frizz barely tamed with a colorful cloth headband. On anyone else, the large stars dangling from her ear would be distracting. 

But Harry’s large eyes are riveting. Enchanting. 

Arousing, even. 

Or, they would be, if Louis weren’t currently an (uncomfortable) guest in her own body. Her feet and ankles seem to belong to someone twice her size and, yesterday, she got heartburn from drinking plain fucking water. 

Studiously, Louis closes out of the tab and adds the appointment to her calendar. 

She touches the top of her belly, pressing her palm hard against Baby’s butt. Baby wiggles, legs flailing straight up into Louis’ lungs. 

“Shit,” she hisses. “Cut that out. Pretty or not, I’d rather just wing it. By myself. I’m only asking for help for your sake.” 

Baby kicks again, this time landing closer to Louis’ ribs. 

“That damn fruit app told me fetuses like you are supposed to sleep during the day and wake up during the night, but I’m pretty sure you never sleep, you little monster.” 

Baby does something that twists all Louis’ insides around and Louis loses her breath for a long second. 

When the circus settles inside her, she types ‘birth plan’ into the search bar. 

The first result begins, “The day you give birth is the most important day of your life…” 

Louis closes the window. No, she doesn’t have a birth plan and she isn’t sure how to start one. That was supposed to be Annie’s job— the Plans. 

The notes app on her phone is a disorganized jumble of half-assed outlines and partially written jokes. She needs her manager to text her the time and venue of all her shows— day of. Even when she makes a list, she forgets half of what she needs at the grocery store. 

Baby wiggles again, low this time, maybe a punch of her arm, or a nod of her head. 

Louis tells her, “You can be the planner.” 

And then, eyes suddenly wet, adds, “I’m sorry.”


	5. Harry

Harry spots the back of Louis’ head first. She’s got the same shiny, brown pixie cut she’d had the night Harry saw her perform. Then, she sees the giant coffee on the table in front of pixie woman and blinks. 

Not Louis, after all. 

Except that the woman turns, and it is Louis, in thick-rimmed glasses that do little to hide the dark circles below her eyes. Her smile is sharp, as she waves Harry over. 

Harry’s eyes fall again on the large coffee. No one should drink that much caffeine, especially so late in the day, especially not when pregnant. Yet another reason not to take Louis as a client. 

“Would you like something from the shop? On me?” Louis asks. 

Harry’d planned to have a sandwich, and maybe a fancy tea latte, since she loved this place and someone rich enough to live downtown would be footing the bill. But she could see now that this would be a very short meeting, so taking up the other woman on her offer of food didn’t sit right. 

“I’m fine. I have dinner plans after this,” Harry lies. 

Louis nods and pats her stomach. “This monster keeps me in most nights.” 

At a passing glance, Louis doesn’t look pregnant. She’s hiding her bulk easily with a loose sweater. Harry says, “When are you due?” 

It’s a mistake, to ask anything at all, especially anything about the baby. At the first hint of a bad vibe, which the coffee more than qualified, Harry planned to let the other woman down— tell her that her calendar had booked up, actually, but she’d be happy to make a recommendation. 

“December 20. Hard to find someone willing to be on call that time of year. A couple of the other doulas I reached out to don’t take clients during the holiday season. That’s part of the unusual nature of my request.” 

Despite herself, Harry says, “And the rest?” 

“I don’t have a plan or a partner and I don’t want either.” 

Harry stares at her. 

Louis stares back, blue eyes unblinking. 

“That’s it?” 

Louis nods. “Yeah. I, just, I’m not great at making plans and when I do, I’m terrible at following through. So better to just let this little one take the lead, I think.” 

“Boy or girl?” Harry doesn’t know why she’s still asking questions. Even if Harry wanted to take on a new client, everything about this request screams, _danger, stay away._

“Girl,” Louis says. “At least, I’m pretty sure. She wouldn’t fully cooperate the day of the scan.” 

“And yet you’re pretty sure...” Harry would not have been. Harry would have gone in for another scan. 

“Well,” Louis says, running a hand through her short hair, “she’s a real bitch.” 

Harry snorts. 

Louis continues, “And all the wives tales— if you’re sick, she’s a girl. She made me fucking miserable. Vomitted my brains out… not that I had many to begin with. Just ask my ex-girlfriend. Then they say if you lack that pregnancy glow, it’s a girl stealing your beauty. These hormones haven’t done _shit_ for me. You’re supposed to look like a fertility goddess for at least a few months— but I look like a half-dead cow. And that’s at least partly because this little brat— she lulls me into a false sense of security, sweet and quiet and woobly for a couple of hours and just as I’m settling down for a nap, she’ll kick me straight in the lungs over and over and over. Definitely a little diva in here.” 

Harry’s full-out laughing. Something about the way Louis phrases things, the venom and the pace of it— she’s funny. Which, obviously, that’s what had attracted Harry to her in the first place. 

That’s why she never should have set this up, never should have walked through the door, and definitely never should have sat down to hear her out.


	6. Louis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mention of postpartum depression and suicidal thoughts

The moment Harry begins to laugh, Louis relaxes. 

She’s not going to have to do this alone. This gangly stranger with curling flyaways framing her face and a voice a little too husky for the sweetness behind her eyes, she’s going to help. 

“You said to bring my birth plan,” Louis says, returning to business. 

Harry nods. “But you don’t want to plan.” 

“No,” Louis says. 

“Well, if we do this, I’m going to require you to do some planning.” 

Louis expected this much. “You’ll help, though?” 

Harry tilts her head and looks down at her hands. She has beautiful hands— long, bejeweled fingers, topped with short, well-kept fingernails painted a pale pink. Louis can imagine them rubbing lotion into her skin, opening up her inner folds. 

She hisses out a breath. Then, she thinks, these are not inappropriate images. This woman will be helping to deliver her baby, after all. These beautiful hands may do exactly that. 

Her heartbeat picks up and Baby, who has been quiet since she sat down, delivers a kick to her right rib. 

“Why do you want a doula? If you’re not hiring me to help with your birth plan— I mean, if you have no particular hopes or desires regarding your birth, why do you need me?” 

Harry’s eyes remain fixed on her hands. She’s still reluctant Louis realizes. 

“I might not have plans, but the little beast inside me does. She wants someone other than her lousy mom there when she comes into the world.” 

When Harry still doesn’t say anything, Louis adds, “This girl does not like me. She’s gonna need some coaxing.” 

Harry doesn’t laugh. “You don’t have any family that could be with you?” 

Louis thinks of Casey, six weeks into her first nursing job. She’d called Louis two days ago. She was on the schedule for Christmas, but all Louis had to do was say the word and she’d book a flight into town for New Years. Louis has no intention of saying the word. 

Louis thinks of her last conversation with Sam, who, between soccer tournaments, was wrestling with which Ivy League college she should apply Early Decision for, given her dreams of becoming a lawyer and then a politician. 

“No,” she says. 

Harry sighs. “Usually a contract entails two or three meetings before the birth. With most clients I’d go over a birth plan, talk about any troubles you’re experiencing during pregnancy, any fears you might have regarding parenting. My mentor was really big on having a postpartum plan alongside your birth plan, but I suppose you’re not interested in that either.” 

Louis knows it’s going to be hard. A comedy acquaintance, two weeks having giving birth to her second child, parked her brand new minivan on an overpass, climbed up on top of the rail, and debated jumping onto the highway below. She was laughing when she’d shared the anecdote with Louis several months of antidepressants later. 

And Louis’ manager has told her more than once—no hint of humor in his dry tone— that her current insomnia is nothing compared with the years of sleepless nights ahead. 

Tears prick the back of Louis’ eyes. She has no idea how she and the baby will survive, other than by the skin of her teeth, and a little humor, so she jokes, “I have a postpartum plan. It’s this: don’t die.” 


	7. Harry

Harry opens her mouth and then closes it, her mind aflood with dozens of questions. 

Who is Louis’ doctor? Why haven’t they spoken to her about birth plans and postpartum support? Or has she simply forgotten their recommendations? Or chosen to ignore them? Where is Louis’ family? Who will help her when she brings her little one home, especially if she has a C-section? 

Harry remembers Louis’ show, and her bit about trying to become pregnant. She wonders why Louis chose to embark on this journey all alone? Or was there a partner in the picture then? 

She remembers, too, viscerally, the way Louis’ flip words had stung, filling her eyes with tears. 

Harry can’t do this. 

“I don’t think this is going to work out. I’m not sure I can help you. The hospital has an emergency doula service you can call, if all you need is someone in the room with you.” 

She stands and fiddles with her ring, fumbling for kinder parting words. 

Louis stands, too. Her face, already stripped bare by exhaustion, reads easily: she’s hurt and sacred. “Wait,” she says. 

And Harry does. 

“I need help.” Louis’ words bite and the way she throws them at Harry feels familiar, as if they’ve known each other far longer than ten minutes, as if their relationship already runs trench-deep. 

And, _Christ,_ but Harry wants to help her, she _does_. It’s just, the last thing that this woman needs is someone who’s perved on her to massage oil into her skin and weep, as she endures what will likely be the most traumatic few hours of her life. 

Louis winces and presses a palm to her belly. Her expression softens. 

Despite herself, Harry asks, “Is she kicking?” 

Louis nods. “Forget what I said about it being a girl. I think I’ve got fucking flipper in here.” 

Harry laughs. Their eyes meet and hold. Harry’s stomach flutters, almost as though she’s the one carrying new life. 

“Do you want to feel?” Louis asks. 

Harry’s hand reaches out with a will of its own. Louis takes it in hers and presses it against the top of her belly, right underneath her breast. The baby presses back. 

“Oh my god,” Harry says, looking down at her hand. 

“I know,” Louis replies. “I know. If you press a little harder you can tell it’s a foot.” 

It’s true. 

And then, after a moment, Louis adds, “That’s a _person_ in there. A _person_.” 

Harry nods, heart growing too big for her chest. It _is_ a person and Harry wants to meet her. 

Harry drops her hand. She can’t quite look Louis in the eye when she says, “I’ll send you a copy of the contract by email. If you think this will be a good fit, sign it and send it back and we can go from there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two quick notes today. 
> 
> 1) The final moment above brought this to mind: please google image search 'Mary Elizabeth Visitation.' OTP of the ages. You're welcome.
> 
> 2) I forgot that the very best thing about posting an Advent fic was the interactions with regular commenters. Depending on my time/exhaustion level, my replies may not always reflect my deep love and appreciation and enjoyment of you all, but it's so great-- you're so great!! Thank you!


	8. Louis

_November 16_

Louis orders the burger, upgrades chips to sweet potato fries, and adds a side salad, for the baby. She’s starving, can’t remember the last time she’s eaten. She picks up the ketchup and then replaces it in the condiment tray, remembering the painful, sleepless night after her last run-in with something tomato based. 

Across the table, Harry squeezes lime into her black bean and roasted avocado tacos. 

“How’s your iron?” Harry asks, nodding to the burger. 

“Probably fine.” Louis shrugs. She’d done a blood test two weeks back. If something were really off, she’s sure they would have called. 

Harry hums. 

Louis’ eyes catch on the intricate metalwork of the ring on her middle finger. Louis doesn’t wear much jewelry herself (who has the time or energy for that kind of thing?), but she thinks that piece is eye-catching, almost meditative. 

“So,” Harry says. “Do you have any thoughts about the birth? Anything you want? Anything you don’t want? I mean, other than a plan?” 

“I don’t really like doctors. Or medicine. Or needles.” 

Harry nods. She doesn’t laugh. Louis’d meant her to laugh. Obviously, most people did not like these things, yet they’d likely be unavoidable, given the danger of childbirth. 

She tries again. “I also hate pain.” 

It works: Harry laughs. “Pretty sure you have to choose one or the other.” 

“One or the other?” Louis asks around a bite of burger. She can feel spots of mustard on her mouth and crumbs keep falling down the front of her shirt. But pregnancy is not glamorous or sexy, despite what Louis’d imagined from afar, and Harry, as an expert on birth, would already know to expect that. 

“Pain or pain meds. You’ve got to choose one or the other, probably.” 

Louis considers this. “I choose pain.” 

Harry laughs and a piece of avocado falls out the back end of her taco onto the plate. She picks it up and eats it off her fingers, tongue first. Louis does _not_ notice how pink and adept Harry's tongue seems. Why would she? 

“Life is pain, anyway, right?” 

“Sure is,” Harry agrees with more gusto than Louis would’ve expected. “So we’re gonna try for a natural birth.” She marks something down on a sheet of paper. 

“My mom didn’t have pain meds for any of us girls, I don’t think.” Louis remembers the way she’d talked about Sam’s arrival, as though she was some sort of athlete, training for a championship. Louis realizes that she hasn’t done any sort of training at all. 

Her mom would have been the perfect coach. 

Without her, Louis’ been (more than) a little lost. Without her, Louis is _such_ a fuck-up.

“I don’t have even a crib,” Louis says, tone bright. She lifts her brows trying to emphasize the humor of it. 

Harry blinks at her. “That’s okay, most babies won’t sleep in a crib until they’re five or six months at least. A bassinet or a pack-n-play will do.” 

“A pack-n-play? What the hell is that?” 

Harry swallows a bite of food, brows drawing together. “Have you… have you got anything for the baby?” 

Louis presses a hand to her belly. She’s only half-way done with her burger, barely touched the fries or the salad, but there’s no room in her for even one more bite. 

“Louis,” Harry’s voice is soft. 

“I have a baseball jersey,” she says. Then, she laughs. “I don’t even like baseball, but the fertility procedure was on Opening Day and I saw the thing in a shop window when I was picking up dinner that night.”

At Harry’s wide-eyed gaze, Louis adds, “I have time, right?” 

Harry nods. “Yeah. Sure.” 

“Over a month to my due date, still,” Louis presses. “My app said the urge to nest should kick in any time now.” 

Harry’s hands fiddle with her napkin and Louis hopes she doesn’t back out. 

“I mean, all she’ll need is that baseball jersey and few diapers, right? We can become a hippie family-- she can breastfeed and sleep in my bed with me. I already wear the same clothes many days in a row and traipse about naked while my favorite bra is in the wash. We’ll be fine.” 

Now, Harry laughs. “I don’t see you becoming a hippie. But if the baby arrived tonight, you’d figure it out.” 

And Louis relaxes again. 

Patting her belly, she says, “Bring on the pain, Baby, I’m ready for you. Harry says so, and she’s the expert.” 

“I didn’t say that,” Harry says, still laughing. “Please let the record show that I did not say that.” 


	9. Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: pre-labor scare, mention of stillbirth (NOT Louis’ baby)

_November 25_

Harry changes the background from a pale pink to a coral and then back again. She set aside this afternoon in her calendar to update her website, but that was three months ago when she’d planned to invest in a fancier graphic design software and a professional photographer for headshots. 

Not really worth the money, now. 

She should be submitting her resume for CNA positions and finishing her application to nursing school. That’s the long-term plan seeing as doesn’t have the grit for doula work. 

She resolutely does not think about the time or money she invested in the training process. Nor does she think about the exhilaration, the _joy_ of the delivery room. 

Instead, she focuses on the accompanying twist of gut and sting of tears. 

Her phone buzzes with a message notification. And then another. And then another. 

She sees only the final one on her lock screen. It’s from Louis and it says, _If you can’t come, that’s fine._

Her thumb hovers over the lockscreen, her thumb ring glinting up at her twofold, once in today’s early afternoon sunlight and a second time in the selfie she’d taken of herself and her niece apple picking in September. Odelia’s grin is proud, a little haughty even, as she shows off her missing top tooth. 

She’s growing up way too fast. 

Harry opens Louis’ messages. 

_Took a spill this morning._

_The monster isn’t moving-- such a little shitstirrer, so I’m off to the ER. Might be delivering a baby— dead or alive???—very soon. So it might be time for my Birth Non-Plan to go into effect._

_If you can’t come, that’s fine._

She shuts her laptop and closes her eyes. The images her mentor Amanda had shown her of the stillborn baby, eyes sealed shut and a little pink hat atop its head, flash before her. 

Maybe it would be easier that way. 

For Harry, at least. 

Maybe if the mother cries, Harry won’t. 

She replies, _I’m on my way._


	10. Louis

Louis’ trapped. 

Naked, at least on the backside. A needle in her arm, and tubes hanging off it, connected to bags, connected to a machine, connected to the wall. And two large straps around her belly, holding on monitors connected to chords connected to more machines connected to the wall. 

She can’t move. 

That was fine two minutes ago, before she’d heard the steady drumbeat of Baby’s heart. 

Now that drumbeat serves as a reminder of the show she’s had to cancel, the money that won’t be going into her bank account to pay this hospital bill. 

Harry enters the room. 

She looks beautiful. 

It’s not the first time Louis’ thought it. But, here, unshowered and strapped to the hard bed, unable to move, the thought fills her with an unexpected breathlessness. 

“Hello,” Harry says, and smiles, a sweet smile, with concern pulling tight the skin round her forehead and eyes. 

Louis allows herself, just for a moment, to forget that she’s paying this woman to care. 

“Hi,” Louis says. “Sorry for ruining your day.” 

Harry’s quiet for a moment, stepping closer. Then she says, “Is that the baby’s heartbeat?” 

Louis nods. 

“Sounds healthy.” 

“I know. They still won’t let me go. Apparently, I’m having contractions.” 

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“I thought they were supposed to hurt.” 

“They don’t hurt?” Harry pulls a chair to the side of the hospital bed. “That seems like a good sign.” 

Louis shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter, apparently. They want to keep me in overnight. Give me steroids— well, the baby really, for her lungs, just in case she does decide to come kick it with us in the next day or so.” 

Harry reaches out and squeezes her hand. Louis squeezes back, soaking in the warm, smooth press of Harry’s palms. 

Baby kicks, hard, causing Louis to gasp, and then rolls over. Louis presses her free hand to her stomach, hoping Baby can feel her through the blanket and hospital gown and belly-monitor straps and skin between them. 

“Hey you,” she says. And then to Harry, “She moved. First time I’ve felt more than a flutter since the fall.” 

Harry’s fingers squeeze a little tighter and Louis feels the cold imprint of Harry’s many rings. 

“Are you married?” Louis asks, before she can stop herself. 

Harry wrinkles her nose and wiggles her left hand in front of Louis. Her ring finger is the only one that is bare. 

“Wild. I would have thought you’d be snatched up right out of high school. Timeliness and feminine wiles are a winning combo, or so I’m told,” Louis says. 

Baby kicks up into Louis’ hand still resting on her belly, probably trying to warn Louis away from this line of conversation. This relationship— with the _one_ person she has found to be with her on what will doubtlessly be the craziest day of her life— it’s not one she should compromise. 

Harry shakes her head. “What are you talking about? Feminine wiles?” Her cheeks are pink and Louis wants to believe its not from the ungodly cold air in the hospital room. 

Louis takes a shaky breath, suddenly aware that she has to pee. She surveys all of the tubes and cords attached to her body and squeezes tight. She can wait until the nurse returns. She _can_. 

“You know,” —keep talking, that’ll distract her— “your long, shiny hair that you flip, just so. And those beautiful hands, nails always perfect, rings winking at anyone who stares too long. And who could fail to notice that husky voice of yours— like a lounge singer. Absolutely spine-tingling— giving everyone who listens closely the sexy kind of goosebumps.” 

Harry’s laughing by the end of Louis’ rambling. She’s still pink. But she’s laughing. 

Which is good. It’s for the better that she’s not taking Louis too seriously. After all, no one else does. 


	11. Harry

Harry plumps the thin hospital pillow. When she lays her head on it, the air hisses straight back out. 

“You know you don’t have to stay. The nurse said the contractions have slowed. Baby’s gonna keep cooking for a little longer.” Then, to her stomach, Louis adds, “Good thing. Stay in there. No one likes an underdone baby.” 

“I’m staying,” Harry says, for at least the fourth time. Then she adds, “It’s late. The trains have stopped running.” 

She’s spent several long nights in one of these birthing suites, but she’s never slept in one. She pulls the rough hospital blanket tighter around her to fight off the chill of sterile air. 

The soft, rhythmic thud of the baby’s heartbeat fills the otherwise quiet room. 

(When the nurse had offered to turn down the volume after taking Louis’ 11pm vitals, Louis grabbed her arm to stop her. “I’ll sleep better knowing Baby’s safe.” 

And then, so softly Harry almost didn’t catch it, “We’ve had a rough day.”) 

“I started one of those fucking lists. Online. After the last time we met, I mean.” 

Harry opens her eyes. Louis is staring straight at her, but her gaze is unfocused. When she realizes that Harry’s watching her in return say says, “Nevermind. You probably want to sleep.” 

“What kind of ‘fucking list’?” Harry asks. She’s curled on her side in the bedside ‘lounge’ chair and not sure sleep is a realistic expectation. Which is fine. She can miss a night of sleep, here and there. She’ll be able to make up for it sooner or later. One of the ‘blessings’ of not being a parent. 

“You know,” Louis says and then stops and closes her eyes. One of her hands moves to touch a different spot on her belly where the baby is undoubtedly moving again. Harry’s own palm itches to cover it. 

“Crib. 500 onesies. 35 pacifiers. 50 Booties. 25 Hats. 10,000 diapers. 11,000 wipes. Do you know they have wipe warmers? Like for the diaper wipes? I mean, don’t get me wrong, a warm, wet wipe down there sounds kind of nice, but is it _necessary_?” 

“It does sound nice,” Harry agrees, but she’s not thinking about diaper wipes. She’s thinking, _you’re making plans._

“Listen, the more I look into it, the more I think, newborn babies have it pretty darn good. Sleep all day, wrapped in cozy blankets. Cuddle with their parents. Don’t even have to get up to use the toilet. Warm milk whenever they want. No one ever texts them passive aggressively about missing the family Thanksgiving. I’m in.” 

Harry’s been on her fair share of postpartum visits. That’s not _quite_ an accurate picture. But it’s midnight, in a hospital bed, after a traumatic day, IV hook-up still in place, just in case— and this is probably not the time for a reality check. 

“Harry, why are you still here?” Louis asks. 

Harry squeezes the pillow. She’s still wearing her rings. 

“The trains stopped running.” 

She hopes that’ll be the end of it, but their eyes lock again and hold. 

“Harry,” Louis’ tone is serious. “ _Why are you still here_?” 

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

“You—“ Harry starts. 

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

And then, “Your baby. I’m here for your baby.” 

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

A minute of heartbeats pass.

Louis voice is soft: “She’s pretty great, isn’t she?” 

Harry nods, hoping that even in the shadowy room Louis can see the movement. Because Louis’ right, Harry hasn’t met it yet, but her baby is _amazing_. 

Throat tight, Harry asks, “Do you want me to leave?” 

“Definitely not.” 

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

Softer, Louis adds, “Without you, we’re fucked.”


	12. Louis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I hope to be back on an AM EST posting schedule soon. Thanks for the continued comments. I'll prioritize replies tomorrow. <3

Louis shovels eggs into her mouth. “Thank you. You really didn’t have to stay.” 

“No, I didn’t.” Harry sets her plastic spoon down beside the little container of yogurt. Her hair’s frizzing out of her messy bun and her eyes are slightly swollen from lack of sleep. Louis allows herself to imagine that it’s years ago. Before the hospital stay. Before Baby. Before Annie. And that she and Harry are rummaging around the kitchen of her shitty studio apartment, their thighs still sticky from riding each other. 

“Got a show tonight,” Louis says. She wonders if Harry’s looked her up, found the couple of clips she’s got on YouTube or her appearance on her friend’s podcast. 

Harry twists her thumb ring back and forth, back and forth. “You’re exhausted.” 

“I’ll go home and sleep for a few hours. It’ll be fine. This little incident— hilarious. All I have to do is add in a couple of lines about how effective the Labor and Delivery Ward is at BDSM, what with all the needles, and straps, and waiting and waiting and _waiting_ to pee— most erotic night of my life.” 

Harry laughs. “I thought you were squirming around because you were sore and miserable.” 

Louis looks her straight in the eye. “Miserably wet. Aching to get off.” 

Harry reaches out to press a hand to Louis’ belly. “Baby,” she says. “I hope you’re not listening to this.” 

Louis covers Harry’s hand with her own, pinning it in place. “She’s heard _a lot_ worse.” 

The nurse unstrapped the baby’s heartbeat monitor hours back. The room is silent and Louis thinks, now, she might be able to hear the beating of her own heart. 

Baby kicks them, and they laugh. 

Harry pulls her hand back. “I can help you, if you’d like.” 

“With my sexual frustration?” 

Harry flushes. Then her hands curl into fists and she looks down. 

Louis wonders if she’s pushed things too far. 

“I meant with the baby preparations,” Harry says. She meets Louis’ gaze again. “But I could be convinced on the frustration, as well. Always had a thing for bellies.” 

Louis thinks about the six unopened Amazon boxes stacked on her couch, about the ‘office’ to be transformed into ‘nursery,’ about the massive list of things the internet assures her she still needs to buy. 

“I thought about giving her up,” Louis says and her chest immediately clenches tight. 

Harry winces and blows out a breath. She’s fiddling with her rings again. “I don’t think I could. After living with a little one for nine months, I don’t think I’d be able to let it out of my sight. Adoption would be out of the question.” 

That’s not what Louis meant. Early on, once she’d realized Annie really wasn’t coming back, she’d walked into Planned Parenthood, just to suss things out. 

“I wanted this baby,” Louis says. “I’ve always imagined having kids, you know? Not being, like, a stay-at-home mom— didn’t think I’d be any good at that. But, more like, the fun parent, the weekend parent.” 

Harry nods. Her eyes are faraway, though, and Louis wants her back in the moment. 

“What do you think, Harry? Would an add on Craigslist do it?” 

Harry blinks. And then her eyes go wide, “You want to sell your baby on Craigslist?” 

Louis coughs out a laugh. “No…. although…”

“Don’t even joke,” Harry says, laughter lilting her voice. 

“For a mom, I mean.” She rubs her belly, feeling the contours of the baby inside. “I’m certainly not up for the job.” 

Harry’s eyes flick from Louis’ belly to her face. “I think you will be. When the time comes.” 


	13. Harry

_December 1_

Harry side-steps her way into Louis’ apartment. Boxes line the walls of the front hall. As she makes her way into the living area, Christmas music plays softly. It takes Harry a moment to realize the tinny sound is coming from underneath the still-wrapped nursing pillow on the couch. 

Louis’ phone, probably. 

Louis’ muttering to herself from the middle of a mess of half-opened boxes. “Not supposed to lift anything, my ass. Who’s supposed to unpack these things? Who’s supposed to do laundry? Grocery shop?”

Louis stops mid-rant to shoot Harry a wide smile. “Hi.” 

“Hi, Louis.” Harry swallows. She feels shy, out of place. She’s never been to a client’s home before a birth. 

“Like my get-up? I dressed up just for you.” She spreads her arms wide and bats her (long, lovely) eyelashes. A yellow onesie covered in little white ducks envelopes her belly and blue sleepers hang like drapes from her arms. 

“Elegant,” Harry laughs. 

“Exactly the word I would use to describe the third trimester.” 

Louis’ nose is pink, and so are her cheeks, and Harry wants run a finger along them, press her own nose against all Louis’ rosy places. Harry shakes the thought out of her head. She’s here to help Louis, not perv on her. 

“What can I do?” She asks. 

Louis blinks up at Harry through her glasses as if she’s spoken a foreign language. 

She changes tack. “Where is the nursery?” 

Louis nudges her head backward. 

Harry winds her way through the living area. The apartment is smaller than Harry expected. Couldn’t hold more than twenty for a party, and even that would be packing them in. 

She pushes open the door in question and flips on the light. The room is empty save an old wooden rocking chair, a pale green wool blanket thrown over its back. The walls are painted robin’s eggs blue. 

Harry pictures herself rocking a wiggly newborn to sleep, moonlight streaming in through the big window. She shakes her head and the picture changes. It’s Louis with the baby, as it should be. _As it will be._

Harry’s eyes sting. 

She turns and, throat tight, asks, “Do you have a crib?” 

“Obviously.” Louis rolls her eyes and then, as she looks around, her indignation turns shifts into a tired sigh. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s the big box by the door.” 

Harry glances down the hallway. She sees four big boxes. “Can we move all this stuff, into the nursery?” 

“Um… yeah. Of course, yes. I don’t know why I didn’t think— yeah. Let’s do that!” Louis twists, arms scrambling to push herself up, and then winces. “Fuck. My back.” 

Harry bites her lip. She doesn’t see a way through the mess to help. “You stay there. I’ll throw you a hot pack— do you have one in your kitchen?— and then dig you out.” 

“In the bathroom.” 

When Harry returns from her search, she finds Louis with her legs splayed, one hand on her low back, the other in a pile of no longer neatly folded sheets, propping her up. Despite her obvious discomfort, she paints an enticing picture.

Louis catches Harry staring. “Elegant, right? Ready for the fucking opera.” 

“You’re in your glory,” Harry tells her. 

Louis laughs, but Harry isn’t joking. She’s beautiful and Harry, sadly, _desperately_ , wants her. 


	14. Louis

_December 5_

Louis stares at the bunches of kale. They’re lush and green and on her list, but she can’t quite make herself put them into the basket. 

“I know I’ll want the baby weight to come off quickly, but I really hate kale.” 

Harry’s examining zucchini a few feet away. She looks up. “I promise you won’t be able to taste it. We’re trying to sneak nutrition into comfort food. And I don’t think you’ll give a thought to the weight, at least not for the first month or so.” 

“Unlikely.” Louis has thought about her protruding stomach nearly every waking moment of nearly every day for the last six months. She can’t imagine, _not_ thinking about it anymore. Then, a question she’s been holding close trips off her tongue unexpectedly, “Have you ever given birth?” 

Harry’s never mentioned being pregnant, or her own labor and delivery. She’s never referenced any children and, if Louis had to guess, she’d pin Harry’s age at late twenties, a little early for someone in this part of the city to be settling down. 

When she’d stayed overnight with Louis after the fall, she hadn’t mentioned needing to let anyone know. Louis assumed she was single and childless. 

But, now, as she watches Harry’s jaw tighten, she’s not so sure. 

“I haven’t, no.” She swallows. “But I _know_ what it’s like.” 

“Oh, what?” Louis turns to face her, painfully aware of her awkwardly wide stance. “Because of some universal female instinct or something?” 

“No,” Harry laughs. It’s the saddest laugh Louis’ ever heard and she’s heard a lot of laughs. “I’ve been in the room for dozens of births. And I’ve walked with several families through the first few weeks postpartum. It’s my _job_ to know.” 

Louis tilts her head to the side. “Fair.” And then, because she’s still a little ruffled by Harry’s presumption, her _confidence_ with all this, she adds, “I don’t believe in all that ‘maternal instinct’ bullshit.” 

Harry laughs, more freely now, setting the zucchini gently into the basket. “Is this a new bit you’re working on?” 

“No.” It’s not. “Well, maybe it could be, now that you mention it. Where was that maternal instinct when I was trying to pick out the right crib? Shouldn’t it be able to discern which is best: convertible or mini? Dark wood or light? And where was it when I legitimately threatened this baby’s life for keeping me up all night… for the tenth night in a row?”

“Yeah, that’s funny,” Harry grins at her, but she’s not laughing, so Louis knows the joke needs work. 

Louis is replaying it in her head when Harry takes the head of greens out of her hand, tosses into the basket, and, completely deadpan, mutters, “Pretty sure if maternal instinct were a thing you would have eaten _a lot_ more kale over the last nine months.” 

Through laughter, Louis protests, “My doctor says don’t worry about pregnancy food aversions, just take the vitamins and we’ll be great, the baby and me.” 

“Greens are a pregnancy food aversion?” Harry asks, her hand is on the kale again. 

“Yes,” Louis says. It’s true. “Also, a non-pregnancy food aversion.” 

Now, they’re both laughing. In the produce aisle. 

Suddenly, Louis stomach tightens and she loses her breath. She places a firm hand over Baby’s butt and closes her eyes. “ _Shit_.” 

“Braxton-hicks?” Harry’s fingers brush her shoulder and Louis relaxes toward them. 

“English?” 

“Pre-labor. Contractions— usually painless ones— that prepare you for the actual birth. Nothing to worry about unless they don’t stop after drinking a little water and sitting down.” Harry sounds like a textbook, one Louis probably should have read. 

Louis’ free hand reaches up to cover Harry’s. The weight of them, together, _touching_. “Thank you.” 

“You’re fine.” Harry’s voice is low and even. “You’re not about to give birth. Probably not, at least.” 

Another wave of tightness shudders through her middle and Louis isn’t confident about that. But also, “You’re gonna be there when I do, though.” 

“Yes. Obviously.” Harry pulls away and Louis’ almost protests. Then, from somewhere in her large shoulder bag, she produces a stainless steel water bottle, covered in tiny purple frogs. “Have a drink and then lets get home.” 

The water bottle smells strongly of Harry’s fruity perfume and Louis takes a long pull from it. “I should probably have one of these.” 

“Good thing one of us has a little maternal instinct.” 

Us. Like they’re a unit. 

And, for the moment, Louis supposes, they are. 


	15. Harry

_December 10_

Harry’s been working since the clinic opened at seven this morning, not even stopping at home between the end of her shift and coming to Louis’. She’s vaguely aware of a nasty tangle in her curls from falling asleep on the train and a nickel-sized coffee stain on her grey slacks.

Louis hasn’t noticed. She’s been dozing in the rocker, one of the labor and birthing books Harry’d casually left on her counter open to the first chapter in her lap. 

Harry drops a handful of onions and then a spoonful of garlic into the pan for a double batch of enchiladas, one pan for this week, one pan she’ll probably never touch again, for… later. 

She’s stopped counting her hours here. She won’t bill Louis for them. None of this— the unpacking, the shopping, the freezer stashing— it’s not part of the services she offers. 

“Fuck.” 

Harry’s back is to her, but Louis doesn’t sound too alarmed. “Need help?” 

“I can’t get out of this chair,” Louis says, but when Harry turns, Louis’s managed it anyway and is waddling toward the kitchen. 

“I am very, very pregnant. No one should have to be this pregnant.” She shakes her head. “I was doing a bit about that phrase, ‘very pregnant.’ Like ‘You can’t be ‘very’ pregnant. You either are pregnant or you aren’t pregnant.’ I stopped, mostly because my manager told me it came off as anti-choice— and god-forbid I offend anyone—but now I realize I had no _idea_ what I was talking about. You can _definitely_ be very pregnant.” 

None of the pots in Louis’ kitchen match and only two of the four lightbulbs in the overhead fixture are working. Dark circles frame Louis’ eyes and her hair shines with a unshowered gleam. 

Harry’s never wished she belonged to a place, to a person, to a _family_ more. 

“I think you look beautiful,” she says and then turns back to the pan. 

Harry expects a quick retort— a denial or perhaps a self-deprecating rebuttal. Instead Louis says, “Thank you.” 

Harry feels her cheeks heat. Taking this job had been a terrible idea all around. 

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Louis asks. “Any big plans?” 

“Attending a birth,” Harry replies. 

“Baby could come early.” 

“Christmas is only two weeks away. If you delivered tomorrow, I think she would still be a Christmas baby.” 

Harry dumps in a can of diced tomatoes and then pulls a half dozen spices off Louis’ spice rack. She doesn’t dare look at their expiration date. She’s already discovered how rarely Louis uses the kitchen to _cook_ cook. 

“My sister’s husband is working overseas. Mom’s visiting them for Christmas this year. Doesn’t want to miss Christmas morning with the grandkids.” Harry’s heart clenches. 

Louis is the first person she’s told. 

She continues, “Last Christmas, Mom and I road tripped out west together to celebrate with them. Can’t really manage it financially this year. They offered to pay, of course, but my nursing pre-rec courses start the first week of January, so…” 

_Nursing pre-rec courses_? She hasn’t even told her _mom_ about going back to school. 

Louis leans against the counter, one hand placed uncharacteristically low on her belly. The baby must be kicking— or punching, as it were. 

“Nursing?” 

Harry twists her ring and wills herself _not_ to overshare. Again. “Being self-employed isn’t as easy as I’d hoped.” 

“Same.” Louis agrees with a nod. 

They stand for a long few moments, watching each other. Harry finds her eyes catching on the way Louis’ breasts press firmly against her shirt so that the line of her bra cup is visible. 

She loves women, yes, and the round, flushed glow of pregnancy. But, before Louis, none of her clients have made her pulse race, none have turned her own nipples to hardened pebbles, none have set her clit alight against the soft fabric of her underwear. 

She clears her throat. “So. Do you like Mexican?” 

Louis laughs and the intimacy of the moment changes, but still, Harry thinks as Louis leans in for a look at the assortment of spices, it isn’t fully broken. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (for people following along in real time: i think we might be through hell week. tomorrow morning holds some promise to getting back on the early train.)


	16. Louis

_December 12_

An open mouth against her throat. Soft hands on her hips. A nipple, hard, pressed between her own breasts. A thigh sliding between her thighs. 

Yes, she thinks. That’s it. 

Louis’ breasts tingle and she arches, tighter, closer, closer…

The surface— it’s not a thigh at all. It’s too soft. 

The smell of it hits her— a muted tang, sweat with a hint of lavender. Her pregnancy pillow, the soft ‘c’ of it cradling her front. 

Fuck. 

Her sheets and blankets lie in a tangle around her calves and her thighs have compressed the pillow into a thin, flat layer of fabric. 

She reaches a hand between her legs. These days, she almost always feels sensitive and a little swollen, but right now, on the edge of that dream, it feels good.

Maybe. 

She keeps her fingers gentle, trying not to think back to the last time she’d gotten off, fucking around with her pale blue dildo, and pulling it out to find the tip stained pink with blood. Totally normal, according to the midwife— a lot of blood down there these days. Still, not an experience she wants to relive. 

Especially not now, not when she’s aching toward an orgasm for the first time in weeks. 

She slides her fingers through the slick— so much slick— trying to find a rhythm. It’s awkward, reaching around her belly, and the angle isn’t quite right, but it’s not not working. 

Her free hand moves, lightly, up over her belly to tease a nipple, and her weight shifts. It’s only a slight shift, a shift that would have gone unnoticed in the heat of the moment, if not for the sharp twinge of pain that shoots from back to hip. 

Insider her, Baby jerks awake. 

Louis presses her face into her pillow and screams. 

“Louis?” 

The door creaks open. 

Bright light gleams from the living area has Louis squinting up into Harry’s shadowy face. 

“Are you alright?” 


	17. Harry

Louis sits, her fine hair forming a tangled halo around her face. The wide neck of her sleep shirt has slid down her shoulder so that her throat and the top of her breast are visible. Her voice is hoarse when she speaks. 

“Harry? What are you doing here?” 

“Are you okay? ”Harry pushes her way into the room, leaving the door open just wide enough to let in a little light. 

When Louis nods, tightly, Harry relaxes a little and settles onto the edge of Louis’ bed. “You made a noise-- I was worried.” 

Louis looks down. Harry’s so mesmerized by the shadows dancing across her collarbones that she almost misses the shrug. 

Harry finds herself speaking again, to distract herself. “Just finished cleaning up the kitchen. I told you I’d take care of it. You were dead on your feet.” 

Louis shifts to sit up more fully, holding her belly as she moves. “Yeah. Okay. What time is it?” 

Even in the dim light, Harry can see that Louis’ cheek is still flushed from where it was pressed against the pillow. “Probably about 9. Not too late, yet. You’ve been asleep maybe an hour.” 

Louis runs a hand through her hair and then lays back down with a sigh. “Probably all the sleep I’ll see tonight.” 

A small sound of protest escapes Harry. “You have to rest.” 

“Oh,” Louis huffs. “Don’t worry. My manager gave me this whole speech already. Let me see if I get it right: I won’t be able to sleep once the baby gets here so I better enjoy all the luxurious child-free rest while I still can.” She punctuates this little monologue with a dry, unamused laugh. 

Harry huffs out a real laugh despite herself. “No, I just mean. Making a baby and then delivering it into the world— it’s hard on your body, so I hope you’re resting.” 

“Rest? My back hurts. And my head hurts. And my feet hurt. Sit around, yes. Rest, no. Sleep? My stomach’s never quite calm, I need to pee every ten minutes, and my mind races constantly. Hello, insomnia. And as far as enjoying my last ‘luxurious child-free’ days? Sure, I’ll get right on that as soon as Baby takes her foot off my left kidney.” 

Louis’ voice is small when she adds, “I’m not ready for this kid, but I’m also absolutely done being pregnant.” 

Harry runs through her mental checklist of prenatal support suggestions. It provides an adequate distraction from how tightly her heart clenches at Louis’ misery. 

She’d bought Louis a stainless steel water bottle last week, but she can’t very well make her drink it. She’s doing her very best to help her eat healthily and manage her schedule to be able to go to bed at a reasonable, at least every night Louis doesn’t have a show. 

“Have you tried massage?” 

Louis gazes at her, lips slightly parted. The angle should be awkward— Harry can practically see up her nose— but Harry’s eyes catch, again, on her bare shoulder. She wants to reach out and touch it, press her lips to it, discover whether its as soft and sweet as it looks. 

“I don’t really like strangers touching me.” 

Harry feels herself smirk. “Do I really count as a stranger at this point?” 

Louis makes a little noise in the back of her throat. 

When Harry accepted this job offer, she knew it would be a mistake. She knew there would be pining. She knew her attachment to the baby inside Louis wouldn’t be simple, that her birth and their parting would bring on the strongest ache Harry’s ever known. 

She hadn’t known that she’d find herself spread beside a half-naked, flushed-from-sleep Louis on her bed, offering her a massage. 

“That sounds nice.” Louis’ voice is soft, as cautious as Harry feels. Harry expects her to follow the comment up with a joke. She waits for it. 

But it doesn’t come. 

Harry moves to the other side of the bed, and drops to her knees. She stares for a long moment at the thin fabric covering Louis back. Massage is a regular part of her job— she loves to use her hands to move her clients through labor— but not like this. 

Pulling off her rings and tucking them into her back pockets, she says, “You have to tell me how you like it.” 

“I like it,” Louis shifts to look over her shoulder. 

“I haven’t started,” Harry protests, running her fingers through Louis’ silky hair before she begins. 

The instant her fingers sink into the meat of Louis’ shoulders, Louis makes a noise, like sigh but on the edge of a groan, and Harry’s lost. 

As her hands work, fully on instinct, Louis continues to make soft sounds, short hums and soft hisses of breath. 

“Yeah?” Harry asks. An inane question, but she wants to hear more. 

Louis moans, louder this time. 

Harry can feel her muscles loosening, can feel the tension in the room dissolving. For Louis, at least. 

Harry’s imagining what it would be like to pull Louis’ tee-shirt over her head and explore the planes of Louis’ back with her mouth instead of her hands. 

Her fingers knead the knots in Louis’ low back and she imagines shifting them lower, to her butt, her hips, the soft, swollen folds between her legs. 

She doesn't, of course. She wouldn't. 


	18. Louis

Harry’s hands. Louis’ been fascinated by them. She’s watched them fold freshly laundered onesies and chop onions. Harry can move awkwardly, like she doesn’t always know how her body’s filling the space. But her fingers— her fingers are long, nimble, elegant. 

Louis has imagined them covering her skin, opening her up. In a professional sense. And an unprofessional one. 

She has neither felt, nor seen, nor imagined them doing this: they press into her the base of her neck and the tops of her shoulders and the knots of muscles dressing her shoulder blades, with just enough force to leave tingles in their wake. There’s a rhythm to it, and that rhythm somehow matches the pace of Louis’ own breath. 

“You’re really good at this,” Louis murmurs. “Not too soft. Not too hard.” 

“Okay, Goldilocks,” Harry replies. A hand drifts up Louis neck and into her hair, firm touch of fingertips against Louis’ scalp and then a soft tug of nails. 

Louis groans, becoming achingly aware of the pillow still wedged between her thighs. 

“You like that.” Harry’s voice catches. She’s not wrong. Louis likes hands in her hair, playing, teasing, pulling. Louis imagines Harry tucking the information back into her mind for a future they will never live. 

When Harry’s hands reach down again, far down, to work on the muscles of Louis’ low back, something in her finally settles. 

Louis’ mind clouds with a haze of sleepiness, drifting, slowly, back toward her dream. She can feel herself tense and throb with arousal, but it lacks the urgency she’d felt earlier. 

“You think you’ll be able to sleep now?” Harry asks, voice as husky as Louis’ ever heard it. The rough edge of it skitters over Louis’ skin, a touch as real as that of her fingers. 

Louis nods into her pillow and hums her ascent. She hopes Harry understands; she doesn’t think she can muster the energy to speak. 

Harry leaves her with one last, very soft, brush of fingers against her brow. “Good night.” 

Louis’ lips ache from where Harry did not kiss them. 

The door clicks shut and Louis’ thighs tighten again around her pillow. 

She should wait for Harry to leave before giving into the urge to finish what she’d started. She should give Harry five good minutes to gather her things and make her wait out of the door. 

Louis has a tendency to make noise. That’s what had caught Harry’s attention— drawn her into Louis’ bedroom in the first place. 

But the ache— it’s been building for longer than the dream, longer than massage, if she’s honest. And she wants to satisfy it before sleep overcomes her. 

She remembers Harry’s hands, the unexpected strength of them, the surety with which they’d touched her, and imagines them traveling from her low back to her hips to press against her clit. 

The pillow is still soft, but she’s close, she’s fucking close, that all it takes is five, six, seven — cants of her hips and she’s riding over the edge toward bliss with a throaty moan. 

Just outside her bedroom door, she hears the rattle of keys. 

She drifts off to the thought that maybe, maybe Harry will go home and repeat the same ritual between her own sheets before she falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I suppose readership will be down this chapter seeing as, after the last, several of you admitted to dying/being killed and one to jumping off a train. Rest in peace. We'll pour out a little breastmilk in your honor._


	19. Harry

Louis’ glasses slide down her nose. She’s reading the chapter in the birth book on breastfeeding and, as far as Harry’s concerned, spending far too long staring at the photographs. 

“You’re not studying, you’re perving.” Harry’s surprises herself by saying the thought aloud. 

Louis’ head slowly raises and her eyes meet Harry’s dead on. “I wasn’t. But now that you mention it.” She shifts her already wide spread thighs wider. 

“Breastfeeding reduces most people’s sex drives to nil. So… now’s the time…” Harry takes a deep breath. She’s been called a tease— she’s proud of her ability to lure beautiful women into bed with her. 

But, in fact, now is the not the time. 

“I can barely move my body from this chair to the toilet and back,” Louis laughs. “I’d be a really passive partner.” 

Louis’ voice twists with regret and Harry thinks, _she’s usually a generous partner._

After a few moments of silence, Louis flips through the pages of the book on her lap and says, “I am not ready for this baby, at all, am I?” 

Harry surveys the apartment. They’ve done a reasonable job on emptying all the Amazon boxes, the ones she’d discovered on her first trip and the ones that have arrived since. The nursery is furnished, the freezer full, the baby clothes laundered and put away, the changing table stocked. 

“I think you’re ready for this baby.” 

Louis closes the book. “Due date’s two days away.” 

“I know.” 

In the past, when clients have called trying to get her to predict with their labor will begin, sharing with her each studiously googled potential pre-labor clue, she’s always been adamant: of course, it’ll happen soon— that baby’s not going to stay in there— but there’s literally no way to tell exactly when until the moment when the baby arrives and takes its first breath. 

And, yet, Harry’s desperate to ask if Louis’ had any of the Not Actual Signs, whether her braxton hicks have come more frequently or her nausea increased. 

As she watches Louis reopen the book, Harry’s own body thrums with anticipation. 

This baby is coming. Harry knows it. Louis knows it. And soon.

“Tell me I’m not going to die.” Louis’ not looking up at Harry when she says it, eyes still on the book, and she’s put on her comedian voice.

“You’re not going to die.” 

“Tell me I’m not going to kill the baby.” 

“You’re definitely not going to kill the baby.” Harry’s response huffs out of her, a little more vehemently than she intended. 

With a laugh, Louis finally looks up. “You sound a more sure of that than you have about literally anything else since I met you.” 

Harry thinks about the baby inside Louis, about the way her little body will inevitably arrive in the world, still all wrinkled and folded-up from the womb, about her stretching, unfurling arms and legs, as she becomes a baby, a toddler, a little girl. 

“I won’t let you,” Harry says. 

Harry expects Louis to protest. Harry has no place in this baby’s life. After all, she’s just the doula. She’ll disappear into the ether after the first, inevitably rough, few weeks. 

Instead Louis says, “Good. I’m going to need someone to keep me in line.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: This fic will finish, like all accurate-to-tradition Advent calendars, on December 24. However, as you might imagine, the story will not be over. I plan to post Act 2 (in its entirety) before Epiphany (Jan 6).


	20. Louis

_December 20_

Louis opens her eyes and sits. Her body’s vibrating with energy. She puts a hand to her belly and Baby gives a small, sleepy twitch before settling again.

Louis grabs her glasses and flicks on a light. The clock glows, 2:23 am. She hasn’t been asleep an hour since her last trip to the toilet. Shifting her weight, slowly, carefully, she pulls herself out of bed.

She relieves herself and then downs another glass of water— she’s been thirsty all the time these last few weeks.

As she stands by the sink, empty glass in hand, a wave of nausea hits. She closes her eyes and presses her hand to her belly a second time.

Baby is quiet, still. For some reason this frustrates her and she has the irrational urge to poke Baby. The odd energy that’s coursing through her— it seems like something that should be bothering her little one as well.

Her eyes catch on a scrap of paper on the counter. It’s written in Harry’s lively script.

_To-Do This Week 12/18_

  * _Organize diaper bag_
  * _Manicure and pedicure???_
  * _Load up on snacks_
  * _Deep clean kitchen (especially floors and cupboards)_
  * _Go to the movies_
  * _40 Week OB appointment_
  * _Begin baby scrapbook?_



Louis crosses off ‘manicure and pedicure’ because… well, no, thank you. Beside ‘go to the movies’ she writes the name of an action film she’s been hoping to catch.

The last item gives Louis pause. Harry’d left the book on the counter one afternoon a few weeks back with a note _thought you might like this <3_, and a gift receipt.

Louis digs it out from underneath a pile of (unread) Labor & Delivery paperwork. The book is yellow and green, covered in ducks and clovers and rainbows, with more blank space than prompts. The opening section is titled ‘Before You Arrived.”

Suddenly filling out the empty pages, telling Baby’s story so far— or at least the good parts (and the funny ones)— it feels important, urgent even.

She sits down and begins to write.

Except.

The moment her pen hits the page, her stomach tightens, low and painful. The sensation grows more intense for ten, fifteen, twenty seconds before receding.

Louis glances at her phone. 2:30.

She sits, completely still, heart pounding for two long minutes.

It wasn’t a real contraction. It couldn’t have been.

Yes, it was more painful than any of her previous braxton hicks. But it hadn’t been that painful, nothing like the kind of torture she’s seen people endure on TV and the movies.

She returns to her writing.

She’s finishing a sentence about how the baby seems to have inherited a sense of humor given the number of jokes she’s already played on her mom when the pain returns— expanding in her belly with the exact same rhythm as before.

“Babies don’t come on their due dates,” she reminds Baby when the pain has passed. “And anyway, we’re not ready for you yet. Lots of things left to do. Harry says, and she’s an expert.”

Despite Louis’ protests, the contractions continue, eight minutes apart and then, after an hour or so, only seven.

Louis calls Harry.

She picks up on the second ring.

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Not even a ‘Hello, are you alright?’ I see how it is. Must’ve interrupted a sexy date or something.” Louis mutters, a little miffed.

Harry sighs and Louis hears sheets rustling in the background. “You should be sleeping. Or at least resting. We both should be because once labor gets underway…”

Harry lets the sentence hang, or she tries to— Louis tacks onto the thought. “Exactly. Labor is underway.”

Harry sighs again. “You don’t sound like you’re in labor.”

“I’m having contractions.”

“Okay,” Harry says, but she doesn’t seem to have registered the gravity of the moment. “When was your last one?”

Louis looks at the clock. “Eight minutes ago.” That’s strange, as she seems to remember her OB mentioning the mantra, longer, stronger, closer together, and her last had been seven minutes before that.

“Go back to sleep.” Harry says. “You probably still have quite awhile. Rest.”

Louis takes a shaky breath and— in the middle of it—another contraction hits.

Through gritted teeth she asks, “Can you come here and rest with me?”


	21. Harry

_December 23rd_

Louis picks at the pile of pancakes on her plate. With her fingertips. 

Harry surmises from the twist of her lips that she’s enduring another contraction. They’ve been coming, on and off, no closer than six minutes together and sometimes as far apart as an hour or two, for the last _four_ days. 

Louis’ OB has assured them that it’s completely normal for the early stage of labor to take days. As long as Louis’ water stays in tact, she’s welcome to stay home, avoid needles and drugs, and ‘relax.’ 

Harry hasn’t spent the entirety of the time with her, but she’s stopped by every day for a meal or two and to check in. 

“Remind me what I can do to speed this along,” Louis says. 

“Outside medically inducing or using herbs?” Harry asks. 

Louis nods. 

(Louis’ been firm about the herbs, but this morning Harry buried a labor-inducing sachet in her leather shoulderbag, just in case Louis changes her mind.) 

“Nothing with any science to back it up.” 

Louis rubs her belly and picks a tiny bite of pancake to put in her mouth. “Bring on the old wive’s tales. I’ll try anything.” 

“Walking, yoga, exercise ball,” Harry ticks them off on her fingers. 

Louis' gaze turns vacant and her body slumps. Harry thinks, _you need sleep._

Instead of saying this aloud, she continues, “A big meal. A spicy meal.” 

Louis shakes her head. “I can barely keep toast down.” 

Harry’s pauses. “Intercourse. But, like,” her heartbeat picks up,“not the kind that would appeal to you.” 

It’s an awkward thing to say. It’s not the first time Harry’s brought up sex with Louis. But they’ve never _talked_ about sex or relationships. Harry just _knows_ things about Louis, because she’s been to her show, watched clips of her on youtube, listened to her guest appearance on a local comedy podcast. 

(This is also how she knows Louis loves to ride bicycles through City Park in the springtime and can’t have more than one dark beer without feeling sick to her stomach.) 

“Why do you say that? I like sex. Most sex, I like.” After a pause, Louis adds, “I even like it kinky.” 

Louis’ gaze tickles over her, light and playful. Her words feel almost like a come-on, but Harry sets them aside, anyway. 

She remembers the giggles and winks of her mentor when she’d told Harry about the sex-induction-trick and how she told her clients that, even if the evidence for its effectiveness was thin, it couldn’t hurt. 

Around a sip of tea, Harry shares her mentor’s reasoning with Louis. “The main ingredient in the topical they use to help you dialate is made of pig’s semen so.” 

Louis nods resolutely. “So. Yeah. Not my favorite kind of sex.” She pauses. “But if I need to get fucked by a pig to start labor, I’ll do it.” 

Laughter catches Harry by surprise, tea dribbling down her chin. For several seconds, she’s too overcome to respond.

“Lou,” she finally says, through breathy, settling giggles. “That’s horrible.” 

Louis shrugs. “I mean it. You’re the doula, do you know where we can find a pig?” 

This strikes Harry as funnier, even, than Louis’ first comment and sets her off into a second fit of laughter. After a few seconds, Louis joins in. 

The roll of it through her body relaxes her in way that Harry’s never seen before. Louis looks good making people laugh, Harry’s known that; Louis also looks good _laughing_ , and Harry suddenly wants to see her laughing, _really laughing_ , more often, every day. 

Louis lets out a breath, face still holding an easy smile. 

Harry opens her mouth, she has no idea what she wants to say. It’s just Louis is such a great person, to just sit and admire, like— 

“Holy shit,” Louis grabs her low back and closes her eyes. “Holy _shit_. Oh _god_.” 

Harry says, “Another contraction?” That much is obvious. Obvious, also, is the fact that this contraction is _different_. 

“Sorry, not turning religious on you or anything.” Louis takes a gasping breath. “Sweet baby _jesus._ This just really fucking hurt.” 

Harry smiles. How can she not? “Baby’s coming,” she says. 

“She damn well better be,” Louis says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna catch up on replies tomorrow. <3 We're so close, now!!


	22. Louis

The contraction ends and Louis slides down the birthing ball onto the floor. “I hate this,” she says. 

“You’re doing a good job. Your early labor was long and really difficult.” 

Louis bounces her head against the back of the ball. “That means that this next bit will be faster and easier, right?” 

Harry laughs, which isn’t a ‘yes.’ 

Then she says, “You were close. With the birthday.” 

“What?”

“You had tomorrow marked on your calendar as ‘birthday.’” 

Louis’ imagination provides her a picture of her own mother, camped out on a hospital floor, much like this one, twenty-eight years ago to the minute, perhaps. 

“Where’s my shirt?” Louis asks, pushing herself up off the ball. 

Harry stares at her and then blinks, “Oh, the one you asked me to pack in the hospital bag? It’s tiny, so I assumed it was to wear home…” 

Harry shuffles across the room and rifles through the open suitcase. She balls up the worn yellow t-shirt and tosses it at Louis. 

Louis stands, slowly and with effort, and makes her way into the bathroom. 

She pulls the t-shirt over her head and smooths it down her front, fingers lingering over the words, _Comedy for a Cure_. The soft fabric stretches, hugging her middle tightly, only barely covering it. Looking into the mirror over the sink, florescent light overhead, linoleum floor beneath her loose, fuzzy standard-issue socks, Louis’ back in a different hospital bed, many years later, her mom now hooked up to a half-dozen machines and IVs. 

There, curled around each other in that hospital bed, whispering, low and fierce, into Louis’ ear, her mom promised to always be with her. 

And she is, of course. She is right here, right now. 

Baby twists and Louis whispers to her, “Going to name you after your grandma.” 

From the other side of the door, Harry says, “You have thirty seconds or less till the next one.” 

Louis steels herself, and pushes open the door. “Can you do…. that thing with your hands again?” Before she finishes the question, Harry’s beside her, hands light on Louis’ hips. 

As as the contraction begins, pain radiating from back to front, Harry’s touch becomes firm, thumbs and then finger tips finding Louis’ sore and tired muscles. 

Her mouth is close to Louis’ ear, when she says,”You’re doing so good, love. So _so_ good.” 

The pain shudders to its peak and Louis’ mind goes blank. 

Harry’s hands continue their work. “You’re going to make it thorough this one. Only twenty seconds left.” 

Louis swallows and nods. It’s going to be over soon, _so soon_.

Harry’s strong fingers work the muscles, hard and slow. 

Harry pauses. “Yeah?” 

“Don’t stop,” Louis hisses. “Don’t _ever_ stop.” 

“You’re doing it _,_ ” Harry says. 

And Louis knows she’s right. This is _labor_ , and it is hard _fucking_ work. And Louis, Louis is sticking through it. She’s gonna make it to the other side. Pain, yes, problem, no. 

When the contraction recedes, she says, “That’s _my_ birthday on the calendar. Tomorrow is my birthday.” 

Before Harry can respond, a knock on the door alerts them as the doctor slips inside. 

“How are things going?” she asks. 

“Great,” Louis says, still fresh off the rush of determination she’d felt upon making it through the last contraction. 

“Contractions are three minutes and forty seconds apart, lasting about minute.” Louis is sograteful for Harry and her watch. 

The doctor nods. “That’s good. A little longer and closer together than when you got here a couple hours ago. Are you managing the pain alright?” 

Before Louis can answer, Harry says, “She’s doing so good.” 

Louis nods. “Turns out I’m pretty tough, as long as there are no needles involved.” 

The doctor smiles. “The nurse said you’d like a cervical check so that we can get a feel for how far along you are.”

Louis looks at Harry and Harry nods. 

Harry says, “You’ve been at this for days. Let’s find out how you’re progressing.” 

While Louis is getting into position, another contraction hits. Harry squats beside the hospital bed and manages to work her magic, even from the awkward angle. 

The check that follows is quick and a little painful. 

“3cms, maybe 4.” The OB tells them with yet another soft smile. “That’s great.” 

It does not sound great. “I have to get to _ten?_ ” 

The OB nods, lips still unaccountably lifted. “But three is great.” 

Something inside Louis cracks. She can’t manage to meet the doctor’s eyes so she studies the yellow fabric over her bump instead.“This baby is nevercoming out. She’s decided to make her life in here. Can’t say I really blame her.” 

Harry laughs, as though Louis’ made a joke, and her fingers touch Louis’ temple and then card through her hair. “You’ve got ten seconds or less till the next contraction.” 


	23. Harry

_December 24_

Louis lies on her side in the bed, facing Harry, limp and sweaty and naked. Her eyes are closed. “How much longer?” 

Harry swallows. She feels as exhausted as Louis looks, though she knows she can’t possibly be. She glances down at her watch. “37 seconds.” 

Louis’ eyes blink open and she shakes her head. “No. I mean until the baby arrives.” 

Harry shrugs. The truth is, she has no idea. She moves to twist her thumb ring only to remember that she’d taken it off hours ago, days ago maybe. 

Louis groans, face contorting in agony. There are still seventeen seconds on the clock. The contractions are coming closer together— that’s a good sign. Harry leans over and begins to rub Louis’ hip and low back. 

“Stop,” Louis whines and twists away. “Don’t touch me.” 

Harry lets her hands fall away, surprised at the bite in Louis’ voice. 

She breathes, deep and slow. This is common, she reminds herself. In fact, she has a whole speech she gives partners at this point in labor— when the person giving birth suddenly doesn’t want to be touched. 

She’s never experienced the vitriol directed at herself. She hadn’t expected that, hadn’t prepared for it. 

But, of course, it’s directed at her. There’s no else in the room. 

As soon as the contraction passes, through gasping breath, Louis says, “Are you sure the pain won’t kill me? Are you absolutely sure?” 

Harry laughs. “Of course.” 

Louis pokes at her belly and says to the baby, “I never want to hear _shit_ from you after this.” 

And then to Harry, she adds, “That was the worst one yet.” 

Harry nods, but before she can reply another contraction hits and Louis moans, fists clenched and eyes wet with tears. 

Harry runs through her mental checklist. She’s tried applying hot and cold. And massage. 

Maybe meditation. 

“Imagine,” Harry begins. “A big ball of light right in the center of your bel—“ 

“Shut _up_.” Louis interrupts, her eyes are closed and her voice is laced with more desperation than anger. 

When the pain finally passes, she says, “This is worse than I expected. How do people do _this_? I want the drugs.” 

She closes her eyes and Harry notices, not for the first time, the dark circles etched beneath them. 

It’s been nearly 24 hours since that first real contraction at the breakfast table. Honestly, they could both use some sleep. 

“You want me to grab the nurse and tell her you’ll take the epidural— get a few hours of rest.” 

Louis opens her eyes. “No. Fuck, no. Harry— you made me do a plan. We had a plan.” But she can’t say more because she’s wracked with another contraction. 

Harry shakes herself. They do— they have a plan. And Harry’s the one who’s supposed to be in charge of it.

Louis’ breathing is heavy and uneven. 

Harry can’t remember a single word of Louis’ (reluctant written) birth plan and she can’t imagine leaving Louis’ side for even a second to find it. She has no idea what to do. 

Louis’ body eventually stills. Voice muffled by a pillow, Louis says, “Fuck the plan. _Fuck the plan_. Never mind.” She lifts her face. “I quit. I’m done. I quit.” 

“The baby can’t stay in there forever,” Harry says. “So you can’t quit.” 

“She could,” Louis insists with a giggle. “I think it could work out for us.” 

Harry’s laughs. How can Louis make jokes in the midst of all this? “You’re delirious, you must be.” 

A light suddenly switches on in Harry’s mind. 

As yet another contraction hits, this one even sooner than the last, Harry says,“I’m ordering the laughing gas. That’s what you wanted.” 

She reaches for to call the nurse. 

Louis’s arm flies out and her hand wraps around Harry’s wrist. Her eyes are wide with panic. 

“What the fuck?!” 

“Lou?” 

“What the fuck! What the fuck! What the fuck!” 

“What’s wrong.” 

“She’s coming. She’s fucking coming. Right now. Forget the laughing gas and call the fucking doctor.” 


	24. Louis

“That’s it.” The doctor meets Louis’ eyes and nods. “That’s the head.” 

Louis’ mid push and everything is on fire and— “You can see the head?” 

She glances at Harry whose eyes are shimmering with tears and locked on what must be the baby’s emerging head. 

“Keep it coming,” the doctor says. “Just a couple more pushes.” 

A couple more pushes. 

Louis wants to see what they see, wants to hold her baby's sweet head to her breast. She heaves a few deep breaths. Every muscle, every nerve, every fiber of her being— it’s exhausted. She’s been laboring a long time. 

But there’s only one way to the finish. She can manage a couple more pushes. She grits her teeth and screams with effort.

“Yes,” says the doctor. 

“You can do it,” says Harry. “You’re doing it.” 

She pauses, gasping for air. She has to. But she doesn’t pause long. The urge to push hits again, harder than ever and, again, she yells with it. 

“Yes,” the doctor says. “This is it, almost there.” 

“Come on, sweetheart, time to meet your mama,” Louis, gasping, tells Baby. 

And then— Louis gives it everything she’s got. That’s what she’s _always_ going to do for this girl. 

She expects cheers, for the body of her baby to slide out and be deposited in her arms, the long wait, finally over. 

“The shoulder is stuck.” 

Louis has no idea what that means, but she doesn’t like the hint of worry in the Doctor’s voice. 

“Please don’t cut me open,” Louis says. And then, “What do I do?” 

The doctor frowns. Time freezes and stretches open, gaping as wide and as painful as Louis herself feels. 

Harry squeezes Louis’ shoulder. She’s been quiet a long a time. “Another position. Maybe all fours?” 

Louis’ on her back in the bed. She doesn’t see how her moving will help with baby’s apparently too-wide shoulders, but she trusts Harry, trusts the sound of her voice, her gentle hand. Every suggestion she’s made so far has made a difference in Louis’ life. For the better. 

With some effort, Louis turns over, limbs achy and slippery with sweat, and feels the baby shift. 

“You’re magic,” she tells Harry. 

Harry runs a hand over her back. “No, you are.” With a gentle press of fingers, she adds, “You can do this.” 

And she can. _She does_. Loudly and with style. One long push. And then another short one right after. 

The baby arrives and Louis turns round to see: dark hair, flailing arms, and a sharp cry that is at once foreign and familiar, oddly calibrated to pull at something in the center of her chest. 

The doctor places the wiggling pink body into her already open arms and says, “Here’s your son.” 

“What?” 

“Good job,” the doctor continues. “You made it. That was a—” 

But Louis’ not listening to her anymore. Louis’ studying a pair of wide blue eyes and a tiny flat nose. She’s counting- one, two, three, four, five and six, seven, eight, nine, ten— fingers and toes. 

Mid-inspection, Baby begins to pee, an impressive fountain of it to cover both their bellies. 

“You’re not what I expected,” Louis tells him, as she mops up the mess with the receiving blanket. 

“Have you thought of a name?” Harry’s squatting beside the bed and her eyes are on the baby’s face, on his little mouth, which is opening and closing, and opening and closing. 

“Jay,” Louis says. 

“Hello, little Jaybird.” Louis’ never heard Harry’s voice go quite this soft. 

A few minutes later, when Jay’s been weighted and measured, when the place is clear of the afterbirth and all the doctors and nurses, a hush settles on the room. 

Louis limbs tingle, elated and exhausted at once.

Jay begins to fuss at her breast.

“Is there anything else you want from me?” 

Louis glances up at Harry. She’s wearing her coat and her face is streaked with tears. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Usually this is when I leave,” Harry says, a hitch in her voice. 

Jay continues to fuss and Louis feels her own unhappiness mix with his. And with Harry’s. Pretty soon they’re all going to be crying. 

“Do you _usually_ help your clients set up their nurseries?” 

Harry shakes her head, a fresh set of tears spilling from her eyes. 

“Do you _usually_ fill your clients’ freezers with food?” 

Again, Harry shakes her head, _no_. 

“Do you _usually_ sit with your clients’ for days before their labor really begins?” 

“No,” Harry says. 

“Why would you start doing what you ‘usually’ do, now?” Louis asks. 

Harry walks across the room and drops into the chair beside Louis’ bed. “Because I don’t know what else to do.” 

Jay’s stopped fussing and Louis runs a hand over his small body feeling the rub of the soft hair that covers him against her palm. Without looking up, she says to Harry, “Stay with us.” 

“Lou,” Harry’s voice is pleading. 

Louis meets her gaze again. “Please?” 

Harry nods and wipes at the tears on her face. 

With careful hands, Louis rearranges Jay so that Harry can see him better. He’s falling asleep and Louis’ certain no tired blink of eyelids on any human being in history has ever been sweeter. 

“Happy birthday, by the way,” Harry says. She’s still sitting stiffly, like she hasn’t quite decided to stick around. 

“Holy shit. I forgot. And it’s almost Christmas, too,” Louis laughs. “What a present.” 

Harry laughs, too. Their gazes lock. 

Harry leans in and Louis thinks she means press a kiss to the baby, but instead her lips land on Louis’ own. They are gentle, and taste like vanilla chapstick and salty tears. 

Harry pulls back with a jerk and opens her mouth. 

Before she can protest or apologize, Louis says, “Thank you,” and then, “Do you want to hold him?” 

Harry bites her lower lip. “Yes.” 

Louis transfers Jay to her arms— butt, back, head— and then reclines, gaze tight to the two of them. 

Harry leans in and nuzzles Jay’s nose, “My sweet, sweet Jaybird. You are so loved, and so lucky for it. Your mama is doing a wonderful job.” 

For the first time, Louis believes that might be true. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Act 2 will be up in... 12 days. See you then!

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](https://juliusschmidt.tumblr.com/post/189388059865/when-half-spent-was-the-night-by-juliusschmidt-hi%22)


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